


Whom Can I Run To

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: Bright Young Things
Genre: I unironically ship it, M/M, but it honestly works so WELL, this ship started out as a crack pairing for a crossover for another fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 04:20:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18792856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: A half-familiar face in a Parisian cabaret, an invitation... and the start of something.





	Whom Can I Run To

    He sees a half-familiar face moving through the cabaret, and for a moment he’s sure he’s made a mistake, he can’t know anyone here, but when they wind up side by side at the bar, he’s sure he does know him.

 

    “Oh!” The man looks up at him and brightens instantly, which is a good indication they must have met once. “Aren’t you-- you’re somebody’s friend!”

 

    “Nina’s, perhaps?” Ginger ventures. He can’t really think of anybody else.

 

    “Yes! Nina’s! Oh, what a small world! I must have seen you with her at a party, or… oh, I don’t know, an event. There were so many events, it all bleeds together, doesn’t it? But Nina’s friend! How is she? Do you know? Only it’s been ages since I’ve heard from nearly anybody!”

 

    “We were married for a while. Erm… youthful mistake.” He says, although that’s not really it. “She’s better off now, though.”

 

    “Well.” The other man touches his arm just briefly, turns to motion to the barkeep before turning back. “I couldn’t make the wedding of course, but that makes you Ginger-- er, Ginger something. Well I do remember that much, I remember she got engaged and-- oh, and then everything was such a mess for me, so you’ll forgive me not remembering the rest.”

 

    “Littlejohn. Er, yeah, Ginger.”

 

    “Miles. Maitland.” He offers his hand. “Didn’t you have that-- you did, a mustache, I remember because you were… you were with Nina, and I looked over at you, and I turned to somebody, heaven knows who, and I said ‘oh, isn’t it always a shame when a handsome man hides himself behind a mustache?’, and-- well, it doesn’t matter what anyone else said after that, because it wasn’t clever. I’d have remembered it if it was.”

 

    “Oh. Er. Yes. I mean, I suppose it would be. Erm, a shame. I was thinking about growing it back, actually.” He bites his lip, face heating.

 

    “Oh. Well.” Miles shrugs, and reaches up with absolutely no sense of self-consciousness, a single perfectly-manicured finger tapping Ginger’s birthmark. “I know how it is, darling, _the eyes of the world_. We all feel the pressure to hide away that which is most different and special and interesting about us, lest the wrong person pry. And we almost succeed, sometimes. Well… other people must. I fear I house a beacon which cannot be extinguished, though others have tried.”

 

    “You make it sound a bit grander than I think it deserves.” Ginger chuckles, nervous. The barkeep sets two glasses before Miles, and Miles hands one to him.

 

    “Cheers, then.”

 

    “Uhm, yes. Ta. Cheers. Right.” He clinks their glasses together. “I mean, I’m sure you’re very grand, it’s only me that’s not-- That is, dammit, you know. You seem--”

 

    “Daffy? Temperamental?”

 

    “Grand.” He finishes weakly.

 

    “So why do they call you ‘Ginger’?” Miles asks. Leans in, in a way which is both nerve-wracking and thrilling.

 

    “Oh. Well. I was moreso when I was younger.”

 

    “Weren’t we all?” He says, with a smile at once heavily mysterious and transparent.

 

    “Were we? I mean, I was. I think?”

 

    He laughs, and smooths out the lapel of Ginger’s jacket. “I’m sure. Well. Would you like to watch the show with the wardrobe mistress? A table for two?”

 

    “Where, er, where is she?”

 

    “Elle est ici.” He makes a sweeping gesture to encompass himself.

 

    “Oh. When you said ‘mistress’, I… assumed… No, then I’d love to. I thought you were passing me off.”

 

    “Perish the thought.” He shakes his head, taking Ginger’s arm to lead him through the crowd that mills among the scattered tables. “I shall keep a tight grip on you, until you’ve told me all the news from home.”

 

    “Wouldn’t know where to start. How long have you been in Paris? It was-- it was before the wedding, you were saying.”

 

    “I was hearing about your engagement as I was preparing my hasty retreat.”

 

    “Ah. Well. Yes, yes, so… a lot has happened. But I suppose you were here where most of it was, er, happening.”

 

    “Oh yes. Living in a hotel, it seemed like I was being occupied by a different set of soldiers every night.” He says, with a touch of something arch, a bit of ‘aren’t I naughty?’, and beneath it a fragile question, and something terribly, terribly familiar.

 

    “Must be… must be nice to have it over with.” He licks his lips, taking his arm back as they reach the table, and pulling Miles’ chair out. He does it without thinking about it, because Miles had been on his arm, as Nina would have been, and he would have pulled her chair out, if they were out. Sometimes even at home, though he was never quite sure if he was supposed to at home.

 

    Miles looks up at him with wide eyes, expression soft and stunned. He sits down fast, as if afraid the chair might evaporate if he didn’t.

 

    “May I?” Ginger asks, his hands still on the back of the chair, and Miles lets out a desperate little laugh cut short, before nodding.

 

    “It’s very nice.” He says, with another nod, as Ginger sits opposite him. “Well… it’s nicer. It’s… I suppose nowadays no one at all occupies my hotel room but me! Which is… fine. No one asking me to sew buttons back onto uniforms. There were so many of them!”

 

    “Er, buttons, or uniforms?”

 

    “Take your pick, darling.”

 

    “I was never… I didn’t see near as many, I suppose. Army didn’t, didn’t want me, so.”

 

    “Mm, they wouldn’t have me, if I’d been available to be had. But, if you ask me, men in uniform are overrated.” He reaches over to pat Ginger’s hand.

 

    “Yes, always asking you to sew their buttons back on, for starters.”

 

    Miles laughs, one hand coming up to his mouth, and he flaps a hand at Ginger, as the lights dim around them and go up on the little stage, or what passes for one.

 

    The show is not particularly inspired, and the performers are skilled in the sort of way that people who sing at parties are skilled, and it’s the most fun Ginger thinks he’s had in…

 

    Well, it doesn’t bear thinking on, really.

 

    And not only because of the wine, which the two of them get through a bottle of before he knows it, and when he tries to pay, or pay half at least, Miles insists his money is no good here, not so long as the two of them are together, but he does suggest that if it were a matter of pride, Ginger might invite him for brunch? Ginger thinks he very well might. He feels unsettled in Miles’ presence, but in the pleasantest way.

 

    “The costumes were very good.” He says softly, leaning across the table.

 

    “Mister Littlejohn, you do flatter me. Come back up to mine, I do want to hear all about everyone. Everyone and everything! And you and Nina-- what man tore _that_ asunder?”

 

    “It wasn’t like that.” He shakes his head, answer coming fast. He’s sure if Miles is a friend of Nina’s from back when, he must know Adam, and… and all that. “I could walk you home, if you like. I ought to save some news for brunch, but… a story about something, or someone, while we walk.”

 

    “Oh. A _gentleman_.” Miles’ eyes sparkle. “Very well. But over brunch, I expect to be entertained!”

 

    “I’ll do my best. Not normally, well, you know. A raconteur. Anything like that.”

 

    “I have faith in you.”

 

    He smiles, nervous, and gets his coat from coat check, where Miles evidently has none. As they step outside, he makes to hand his over, and when Miles gives him the same wide-eyed look as he had at their table, Ginger goes so far as to drape the coat over his shoulders, watching with some odd satisfaction as those neat and elegant hands close around the fabric to keep it there, as Miles flashes him a smile.

 

    He seems so fragile, Miles. So lovely and so cheerful and so fragile, like a bird.

 

    “You’re very kind.” He says.

 

    “I’ve never, I’ve never been… very anything, before.” Ginger admits.

 

    “Oh, that’s not true. I don’t believe that for a minute. I shall find out exactly what you’re very.”

 

    “All right.” Ginger smiles, ducking his head.

 

    “How long will you be in Paris?”

 

    “Not sure, really. It would have been America, but I was… I was buying a newspaper, and a man said to me, if I was planning on traveling-- I’d had my suitcase-- that Paris was beautiful this time, and so… I’m here instead.”

 

    “How fortunate. I mean-- it is beautiful this time.”

 

    “Yeah, yeah, yes, very.”

 

    “It’s really beautiful all the time, when there’s not a war on. Er… do you know Agatha? Nina came to visit her, back… back when. Does she ever…?”

 

    “Not that I know.”

 

    “Oh.” Miles deflates a little. “I write, now and then, and I… I don’t think my letters get through. I keep worrying she’d-- _moved_ , during the war, and so there… That we just missed being able to be in touch. And it’s-- if she’s well then that’s fine and I don’t mind if… if I’ve lost her because she’s happy someplace else, you know… then that’s fine, but if it’s just that they won’t deliver my letters… If it’s because they won’t deliver them...”

 

    “I’ll write and ask Nina once I’ve got a place to receive her reply, if you like. I’m sure-- I never knew a lot of her old friends. I wasn’t… fun, like that. At parties. I met people and then I would… I’d stand about the kitchen, you know, or I’d… I’d step out on the balcony, if there was an empty balcony, if the kitchen was full. I’d… you know, I’d find a place to be. And all that.”

 

    “Hiding yourself away. Well. Thank you, for wanting to go to the trouble.”

 

    “It’s no trouble. I mean… got to write her anyhow. Let her know I’m all right.”

 

    “It’s nice she still wants to know.”

 

    “Well. Hope she does.” His lips quirk upwards at the corners, though it’s not quite a smile when they do. “No, no, she does, it-- it’s amicable.”

 

    “Just around the corner here. That’s good. Here-- come in with me, come up a minute. I’ve had your coat this whole time! You ought to come in and warm up.”

 

    “Oh, it’s not-- it’s not so cold out. I’m all right.”

 

    “Are you certain?”

 

    He opens the door for Miles, the two of them arriving too late for the doorman, and he gets another one of those fragile smiles.

 

    “Well… warmer inside, yeah, I-- I suppose. Only for a minute, don’t want to keep you from your rest.”

 

    “Of course. Ought to _try_ to be well-rested for brunch.” Miles hesitates.

 

    “It could be lunch, if we sleep in.”

 

    “Do you think it very likely, Mister Littlejohn?” He bites his lip, smiling.

 

    “I think it possible. Don’t you?”

 

    Miles returns his coat, leading him up to his room, letting him in. It’s small, but comfortably appointed. A little settee at the foot of the bed, a small writing desk with a wooden chair he nearly takes, until Miles tugs at his arm and guides him to the settee instead, to sit close together.

 

    “There. Much warmer, isn’t it?”

 

    “Oh. Yes.” Ginger nods. His face certainly is. His side, where Miles is so near… “Er-- about Nina. Well, I just mean… I ought to get that one, I ought to tell it now, get it out of the way. Being as it’s a bit more private. It’s nothing sordid like she left me, we just…”

 

    “It’s all right, dearie, you let it out.”

 

    “I… When we got married, I promised she wouldn’t have to work. She wouldn’t have to do anything. I’d take care of her. And then… oh, I don’t know. The war, and how everything just changes on you. She had to take a factory job. And then her-- then the place… Well, it wasn’t safe, you know? It wasn’t safe, and-- and what kind of man--?”

 

    “Oh--” Miles takes his hand, between both his own.

 

    “Anyway, I’d… I couldn’t do what I’d promised her, and she… oh, she deserved better. And I couldn’t let her go back to it. You know, my-- my wife could have died. She could have died, if she’d… if she’d been in there when it-- I’d promised she wouldn’t ever have to… Well. Long story short, I, erm, I did some things to try and get the money, you know, have enough she wouldn’t have to… I did-- I made some mistakes. Not proud of it, but… Smuggling and holding things and setting up deals on things, you know. Not necessities! I don’t want you to think I’m-- But luxuries. I’m not the sort who’d-- not the kinds of things where people’s lives are on the line if they don’t have… But little luxuries. Black market goods. I just… I had a family, and I know that doesn’t make it right, but she could’ve died because I couldn’t take care of her like I promised.”

 

    For long moments, he can’t bear to look over at Miles. It hadn’t… it hadn’t meant anything, to talk to Adam. They were… they were never going to be friends, probably never going to respect each other very much, except in a very grudging way. Miles… dammit, he’d _wanted_ Miles’ respect. He’d… he’d wanted Miles to _like_ him.

 

    “You can’t go back…” Miles whispers. “Can you?”

 

    “No.”

 

    “Neither can I. Not ever, I don’t expect.” He sniffs, and clasps Ginger’s hand tighter.

 

    “What for?”

 

    “Oh-- _you_ know.”

 

    “Sorry.”

 

    “I just… well. I’m so irrepressibly _me_ , it was bound to happen.”

 

    Ginger turns, meeting Miles’ eyes. In the cabaret, they’d seemed so wide and so dark and so warm, he’d taken them for brown, but they’re the most perfect shade of green.

 

    “Well, I suppose it’s the-- the both of us stuck.” He pushes himself to smile, reaching up to brush a bit of wetness from Miles’ cheek.

 

    “It’s late.” Miles whispers.

 

    “Oh-- I should--” Go, he should go, but the word lodges in the roof of his mouth.

 

    “Stay.”


End file.
